Destination: Beautiful
by thegoldhat
Summary: Ever since her father's life ended due to a basketball related injury, Gabriella has hated the sport. A stubborn Troy Bolton is determined to change her mind. Rewrite of A New Perspective. AU, TroyGabriella.


Don't worry. Chapters will get longer, this is just the introduction.

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"_Life should be fair. I'll start a petition." _

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I slowly turn my head to glance at my mother.

Black was never a good color on her.

And I can't say I like wearing it either. Not today. Not for this reason.

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_Growing up, I loved reading. I could pick up any book and I'd have my nose buried in it for hours at a time. My favorites were the ones with happy endings. I strayed away from tragedies. While reading, it felt like I was going through the character's hardships with them, then reading the pleasant ending made choosing the book in the first place all worthwhile. But my life wasn't like that. My life was perfect. Always perfect. I've never known anyone with cancer. I've never had financial problems. I've never had my heart broken because of a boy. I had anything a girl could hope for. I lived in Los Angeles with both my parents who loved me dearly. My father was a professional basketball player, playing for the LA Lakers. Even though he was away periodically, he managed to make time for me. _

_I had always been dubious about the sport, but it was my father's life. He tried several times to teach me, to get me interested in basketball, but I'd always fancy books rather than being sweaty. _

_Still, I had all the luxuries I wanted. It couldn't get any better._

_But it could get worse. And it did._

_I've heard of life-threatening injuries obtained while playing sports. I'd always thought the 'sports' referred to snowboarding or skydiving …or swimming (I mean, it's possible to get a cramp and drown). Basketball wasn't anything like that though. Especially professional basketball, right?_

_I was thinking about that while watching my father that night, playing at the Staples Center. I kept trying to reassure myself that nothing wrong would happen. But something did. I took my eyes off of the television screen just for a moment, to go get a snack. When I came back, my eyes widened in horror as I watched my father on the floor. I can't remember if he was moving or if I was breathing; it happened too fast. All I can recall clearly from that night was the look on my mother's face as she told me the news that I thought would never happen._

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Gina Montez held two fragile roses with trembling hands. She bends down slowly, almost as if she's afraid she'll never be able to stand back up again, placing the delicate flowers near the headstone that I couldn't stop staring at. The red and green objects greatly contrasted with the grey slab that they were placed against.

"Why?" I mumble to no one in particular, my mother answers anyway, knowing what I was talking about.

"Life just isn't fair sometimes, Gabi. What you want won't always come, and it's not anyone's fault. Not yours. Not mine. Not your father's."

I disagree. "Life should be fair. I'll start a petition." The death had to have happened for some reason. Maybe if I had begged him to stay at home that night or if he hadn't started playing the sport at all …he'd be beside us. But we wouldn't be standing in a cemetery, mourning. We'd be enjoying ourselves, having the time of our lives.

Gina chuckles lightly at my juvenile statement, but it's almost inaudible. I can see the twinkle in her eyes return for a moment. It almost seems like she's herself again. But as quickly as it had arrived, it left and her eyes were dull once more, just like they had been a few seconds ago. "If life were fair, you'd never learn anything." She commented in a motherly tone.

"I don't want to learn anything. I want dad to be alive." I whisper the last part, feeling selfish. I hear a sniff coming from my mother's direction. She tries to hide it, looking ashamed to be crying -- to show weakness in front of her daughter when she should be strong. In a low, tired voice, she says to me, "I'll be waiting in the car. Come when you're ready." She ambles away, her gait uneven.

As far as I know, I'll never be ready. I feel like staying here all day, talking to someone I loved even if they'll never get to hear me because they're buried deep underground. My father called me 'his sunshine'. He did so when I was four, as well as when I was sixteen last year. I'd get embarrassed when he'd say it in front of my friends. Then after, when they left, he'd say that I made _him_ happy when _his_ skies were gray. And I'd know that he loved me more than anything else in the world. So it was okay.

But now, who was going to be there for _me_ when _my_ skies turned that comfortless, dispiriting color?

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Unscramble the letters?

WIEEVR SPEAEL


End file.
